


The Spirit of Dance

by FidotheFinch



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballet, Gen, bruce is artistic director of gotham ballet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 03:39:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15525228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: They say the old Gotham Theater is haunted. Bruce is undeterred.Or, the alternate-universe retelling of how Bruce and Jason meet.





	The Spirit of Dance

**Author's Note:**

> For Batfam Week 2018, Day 4: AU. This is a dance au I may continue, if there's any interest. (Who am I kidding, I've danced ballet my whole life. I'm continuing it.)

“This is it?”

“Yep. Great location, right in the heart of Gotham.”

Bruce hummed, examining the old Gotham theatre. It was more metal braces than brick, and its location was much closer to the bad part of the town than the heart of Gotham. He snorted quietly; some would argue it was the same.

The real estate agent that was supposed to show him the location—Janice, her nametag said—pulled out a set of keys and started to unlock one of the boarded glass double doors.

Bruce stepped backward when swinging the door open set loose a small cloud of dust. “Are you sure it’s safe to go inside?”

Janice laughed. “It doesn’t look like much, but the building is still structurally sound.”

Bruce’s plastered smile went a little thinner. Janice wasn’t lying, necessarily, but the building had been abandoned fifteen years ago when the city couldn’t afford to clean the mold from the walls. It wasn’t common knowledge, but he knew enough about Gotham to do his homework before purchasing anything within city limits. Any space going for as cheap as it did should raise a few red flags.

Janice reached around the corner and flipped a switch. The lights flickered a moment before catching into the ‘on’ position. “The electricity was never cut off, because there are dehumidifiers installed in the basement to preserve the integrity of the building.”

Bruce followed Janice into the Grand Foyer without a hint of trepidation, despite the cobwebs and thick layer of dust coating everything.

Two grand staircases wound around either end of the foyer, wide enough for three or four people to take at once. The floors were made of sturdy, polished wood that used to gleam under the light of the crystal chandeliers, set high in the ceiling. He walked over to the nearest stairway and wiped the dust from the head of a tiny brass bat eating the fruit from the tree that held up the banister.

“I used to come here with my parents,” he remarked. He had come to see a ballet, his first, and balked at the bat on the banister.

His mother had gently scolded him. “It is Gotham,” she said. “Ugly at first glance, but beautiful when you get to know her.”

Then his father had scoffed, “The guy who commissioned the building had a thing for bats.” Leaning in close to young Bruce and his mother, he had waggled his eyebrows and whispered, “Rumor has it, he dug an entire cave underneath the building so he could keep some as pets.”

“Oh, Thomas,” his mother had said, playfully shouldering him over. She had laughed, and it had echoed in the open room.

Bruce wished he could hear it again.

Before he could step away, he noticed something odd. The dust on the banister was significantly thinner than in the rest of the room. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped back. “Has there been a problem with squatters?”

Janice looked up from her cell phone, where it looked like she had been checking an email. She smiled radiantly. “Of course not! All of the entrances have been locked or boarded shut.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You know you are required to tell me if there has been any criminal activity reported in this building.”

Janice’s smile went tight. “Right. There was a noise report a few months ago. Somebody called the police, swearing they heard music coming from the hall.”

Bruce started toward the doors to the Great Hall without hesitation. The doors were locked, but Janice followed hastily with her keys out. “The police didn’t find anything, though.” With a heave, one heavy door swung open. Janice fiddled to pull her keys back out of the lock and stash them. “Some say the theater is—”

She interrupted herself when she looked into the room. “Oh.”

It was dark, gaping. Thirty rows of dark red velvet seats lined the room in front of them. Dark velvet curtains covered the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Except one.

The curtains by the window nearest the stage had been pulled down. Light streamed through the grimy window glass and grazed over half the stage, illuminating the old wind-up radio sitting there. The screen was still glowing orange, and the lilt of a familiar Tchaikovsky tune floated over the empty stage and seating area.

Bruce stepped through the doorway, ready to go after whoever had wound up that radio. (He knew that model; it only lasted ten minutes before having to be rewound). Janice’s breath suddenly caught in her throat, and she began coughing. “Sorry,” she got out between gasps. “It’s the dust, and my allergies.”

Bruce coolly replied, “It could be the mold.”

She had the decency to look embarrassed. “I was going to tell you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said flippantly, waving a hand over his shoulder. “I’m tearing the building down either way.” He thought he heard a whisper of a sound from the stage, a light gasp, maybe, but Janice began babbling over him before he could investigate.

“Mr. Wayne, this is a historic building. With your funds, I’m sure you could get it back to good as new. The art and architecture in this building are unique to this area; there’s nothing like it anywhere else in the world—"

Deciding the room was unoccupied, Bruce turned back to Janice. “I have plans to build a new theater. I’m here to see what can be salvaged. The banisters and chandeliers seem to be in excellent condition.”

“They are! They are the originals, commissioned by—” she was cut off by another bout of coughing.

“Why don’t you get some fresh air? I’ll be okay in here.”

Janice’s eyes were watering. “Are you sure?”

Bruce waved her off dismissively. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

As if on cue, the radio slowed to a halt.

Janice went pale, and with a quick nod, she trotted back toward the entrance. Bruce’s demeanor dropped immediately, a frown and calculating eyes replacing the smile he wore as the artistic director of Gotham Ballet. “Show yourself.”

A clang answered, as though something fell from backstage. Bruce leapt into action, jogging down the center aisle toward the stage. He easily vaulted onto the stage and rolled to his feet. There, he had to pause. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, he could make out the outlines of a worn and saggy ballet barre further upstage than the light reached. He skimmed his hands along its length. It was dust-free.

The wind-up radio also happened to be an emergency flashlight. He grabbed it. There was hardly any dust on the stage, and when he picked his way through backstage, he found a broom that was probably the culprit for the cleanliness.

The backstage was small, typical of old theaters. There was nowhere for the squatter to hide, so Bruce slipped through the door in the back. It led to a hallway with several doors leading to what he assumed were dressing rooms and bathrooms. One room was propped open with an old filing cabinet. Bruce crept toward it, wary of anybody who may jump out of any of the doors he passed. (A quick test confirmed they were locked).

Inside, Bruce found the curtains. One was bundled into a rough mattress shape and the other clearly served as a blanket. The velvet on them was dusty and cracked, but Bruce had no doubt they served well in winter.

Speaking of—the window was cracked open. Probably how the squatter had entered in the first place. Who knew how long they had been there? A small pile of trash in the corner—old newspapers, protein bar wrappers, and water bottles—confirmed it had been weeks. When Bruce stepped inside the room, he fumbled when the door wouldn’t open all the way. There was a pair of shoes wedged between the wall and the half-open door.

His mouth went dry. They were small shoes. Children’s shoes. And next to them, a woman’s jacket, discarded in the summer heat. He knelt to pick them up. They were hardly worn; presumably they didn’t fit any more.

An old box television was plugged into the corner, supposedly able to stream whatever was happening on stage into the dressing room. Beneath it sat a video cassette player. A bit of fiddling made it spit out an old copy of The Royal Ballet’s _Romeo and Juliet_.

Bruce hummed. “The kid has good taste,” he mumbled to himself. He backed out of the room, sweeping his flashlight across the floor to look for footprints as to where the kid had gone. He found some further down the hallway, which he followed into the basement, where the sets and costumes had been stored. All that was left now was a cavernous space, the oldest rotting bones of sets, and costumes that hadn’t been worth saving. A box of ballet shoes had been pulled out and opened recently, judging by the smears in the dust.

It was all painting a clear picture in Bruce’s mind. No wonder everyone thought the place was haunted.

He didn’t see any exits other than his own, so he figured the kid was still inside somewhere. “Hello?”

Predictably, there was no response.

“I know you’re in here.” One hand fumbled against the wall until he found a light switch. With the lights on, there was almost nowhere to hide in the room.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I know you’re just a kid.”

There was an angry scoff from his left, and he swung around to face almost five feet of angry boy. “I’m not a kid. I can handle myself.”

“How old are you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Bruce risked taking a step forward. The kid didn’t back away, but now that Bruce was looking he saw the hammer he was gripping in one hand.

“My name is Bruce Wayne. I’ve bought this building.” He waited.

The kid raised his eyebrow. “Jason.”

“Nice to meet you, Jason,” Bruce proceeded like he wasn’t talking to a homeless kid. He chose his next words carefully, considering what he had seen earlier. “Where is your mom?”

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Jason’s face went stony. “Look, I’ll clear out. Just let me grab my things and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Where is your mom?”

Jason backed into the wall. “She’s dead, okay?” He tapped the hammer at the wall mindlessly.

Bruce had the impression he was facing a cornered animal. “Your dad?”

“Don’t care, so long as he’s nowhere near me.”

Bruce took a deep breath, raising his hands in a non-threatening gesture. “I can help you.”

A hollow laugh rose out of the boy’s throat. “Help? Send me off to the foster system to get slapped around by somebody else? No, thanks.” Faster than Bruce could’ve imagined for a boy as malnourished as he was, Jason disappeared behind a clothing rack.

Bruce sprint around to where he could see him just in time to see the wall closing.

That couldn’t be right.

He ran toward the wall and slid his hands along the cracks between the bricks. There was a shelf build into it on his right, and when his fingers brushed under the ledge—a button.

The wall hinged open.

Bruce turned his borrowed flashlight back on and stepped through the doorway it created. Inside were steps, and he followed them down into a large cavern.

He shone his flashlight around. “What on earth—” His voice echoed back several times.  Dozens of bats hanging from the ceiling shifted at the sound. “My dad was right,” he wondered aloud.

“HAAARRRAAUGH!” Jason barreled at him from behind a corner, hammer high over his head. Bruce deftly side-stepped the attack and swung him around so he was pinned with his arm behind his back. He dropped the hammer.

“Let me go, you creep!” Jason tried to step on Bruce’s feet, but joke was on him: Bruce had lost feeling there years ago.

“Jason, I’m not going to hurt—ah!” He pulled back when Jason bit his hand. Alfred was going to be pissed.

Jason picked up his hammer again. “If you don’t hurt people, why do you know how to do that?”

“Cross-training,” Bruce replied quickly. “I was a professional dancer, and I supplemented technique classes with martial arts. It balances out the muscles.” It was the excuse he had used for years, and while it wasn’t necessarily a lie, it wasn’t the entire truth, either.

Jason’s stance relaxed slightly. “A dancer?” He spun the hammer around once, twice. “You’re the guy from Gotham Ballet.”

Bruce nodded. “I’m the director.”

Jason frowned. “My mom was a dancer, too.” He kicked at a pebble on the floor. “’Til she was laid off.”

Bruce’s face softened. When the Gotham Theater had shut down, many of the small dance and theater companies that had used it had no place to perform. They had laid off countless people before finally closing for good. Gotham Ballet was new; hadn’t been opened until a decade ago.

An idea struck him. “The barre on the stage, the radio. It’s yours?”

Jason tilted his head and shrugged.

“You dance.”

Jason’s shoulders tightened up. “It passes the time.”

“Show me.”

“Uh, no.”

Bruce took a deep breath. “I’m the director of Gotham Ballet—”

“You already said that.”

“—which means that I have pull at the Academy, too.” Bruce watched as Jason realized what he was implying. “My son, Richard, just left the Academy, so we have a spot open. It is required that you live with the other trainees, but lunch and training is provided. I may even be able to offer a scholarship. . . “

Jason swung his hammer a few seconds, then let it fall to the floor. The metallic sound echoed through the cave as he stormed toward Bruce. “Fine. Follow me. Bring my radio.”

Bruce allowed himself a small smile as Jason passed.

When they reached the stage, Jason grabbed the radio from Bruce’s hands and cranked it a few times, fiddling with the dial on the side while he did. Another classic piece came on, Chopin this time. Bruce settled on the floor near the lip of the stage, legs crossed.

Jason toed his shoes off nervously and asked, “So how does this work?”

Bruce surveyed the space they had, the lighting. Jason’s bare, calloused feet. “I’m assuming you don’t know the proper vocabulary?”

Jason blushed. “I know what my mom told me.” He stepped his heels together and bent his knees in plié. “And what I saw them rehearsing.” He added an arm to it, curved over his head. The placement was a little too far back, causing his ribs to splay, but otherwise the line looked good.

“Warm yourself up, then just dance.”

Jason eyed him warily. “This isn’t how auditions usually go.”

Bruce nodded. “We hold private auditions for the scholarship program. For students with potential.” After a pause, he added, “and the will to learn.”

Jason nodded, eyes shutting briefly. “Okay. Okay.” When he opened his eyes, he raised his chin. “I’m warm.”

“You hardly—”

“I was dancing before you got here.”

Bruce smiled. “Then whenever you’re ready.”

Jason waited, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Chopin drifted away, replaced by a nice woman announcing, “Thank you for listening to 99.5, Gotham’s only Classical station, supported by listeners like you. Up next is ‘Jupiter,’ from Gustav Holst’s _Planet Suite_.”

When the first bright strings began to flutter, Jason stared at Bruce. “What exactly are you getting out of this?” He asked. “This isn’t a sex thing, is it?”

Bruce shook his head, hands tightening into fists in his lap, where he hoped Jason couldn’t see them. “No, absolutely not.”

“Then what do you want?”

Bruce leaned back on his hands, head cocked to the side, considering. “Don’t tell anybody about the cave.”

Jason looked surprised. “Why not?”

Bruce shrugged dismissively, but he doubted that Jason bought it. “Some secrets are best kept.”

Jason gave him a look, eyes narrowed. Then he pointed his foot, spun to the left, and leapt into a turning jump that peaked right as the music erupted into its first big note.

Bruce sat back, mesmerized as he watched. The kid couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he danced with the strength of some of the Academy’s older students. When Jason leapt, his feet may not have held their point, but he soared almost two feet off the ground. When he kicked, his standing leg may have turned in, but his leg went well past ninety degrees. When he turned, his spot was off and his foot slow to creep to retiré, but he landed a double with little more than a wobble.

The music slowed down into its iconic middle section, and Jason, sweat dripping down his face, slowed to match the new beat. The melody rose slowly and steadily, and that’s when Bruce saw it: Jason’s eyes were wet. He was about to tell him to stop, fearing that he had injured himself, but Jason closed his eyes and chassed back into a tour en attitude almost effortlessly, smoothly landing in a kneel with a bow.

Bruce recognized it instantly as part of the choreography he had seen the last time he watched a show in the theater. The melody ended, the repetition of the opening theme beginning again, but Bruce cut the music off.

Jason wiped away his tears quickly and lifted his head. Bruce offered a hand to help him up that Jason didn’t accept.

“You okay?” Bruce asked.

“Mom taught me that,” Jason mumbled. “I miss her.”

Bruce smiled softly. “I lost my parents, too.” Something in Jason’s eyes flashed. “Dancing helps.”

Jason nodded.

“Well, Mr.—”

“Todd.”

Bruce smiled and held out a hand for the boy to shake. “Jason Todd, I am pleased to offer you a position as a student at Gotham Academy, full scholarship.”

Jason took Bruce’s hand and shook it. “I accept.”


End file.
